


A Helping Hand

by ChampionFlyer



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Exhaustion Induced Breakdown, Good Parent Gil Arroyo, Human Disaster Malcolm Bright, Hysterical Breakdowns, Insomnia, Jackie Arroyo (Mentioned), Malcolm Bright Can't Sleep, Malcolm Bright Whump, Panic Attacks, Protective Gil Arroyo, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampionFlyer/pseuds/ChampionFlyer
Summary: Gil helps Malcolm through a particularly rough panic attack and learns some unsettling news about his favorite profiler.Luckily for Bright, he has the best surrogate father in the world.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 11
Kudos: 183





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Since PS is currently on a long-ass hiatus, and with the new promos stressing me out, I have decided to whump Malcolm again. 
> 
> Surprise...

It was a  _ long  _ day at the precinct. Longer than usual, in Gil’s mind. 

  


The team had split for the majority of the week to track a suspected serial killer around Manhattan. Gil and JT tracked his credit card spendings all over the place while Bright and Dani took up the task of questioning witnesses and investigating possible leads. By Friday, Gil had their suspect in custody after a high stakes car chase down Park Avenue. It ended with two officers wounded, but thankfully no casualties. 

  


Dani had gotten the witness reports in on time, along with Bright’s full case report. Gil found it strange that Dani was the one dropping off the profiler’s written report. Usually Bright makes his way out of his cubical and into his office to turn in his papers while Gil would pour both of them a glass of whiskey. 

  


When Gil asked where Bright had gone, Dani had said he left shortly after he finished up the report. “He looked awful, Gil. Considerably worse than usual. He’s been degrading all week, I think today’s developments finally knocked him over the edge.”

  


Gil didn’t even try to hide his guilt and worry from Dani. He knew what she was silently pleading him to do. He hadn’t seen Malcolm for more than a few minutes every day, the case taking up most of his attention. He honestly felt awful not noticing Bright’s declining state sooner. It was his job to not only look out for his team while on the job but for the kid’s wellbeing as well. 

  


The lieutenant finished filing the case in the report documents hastily before rushing out of the station. He offered a quick good night to Dani and JT, who usually loitered around for a conversation after their hours were up. He knew she would appreciate him checking in on Bright, particularly after the kind of week they all had. Dani would likely fill JT in on Malcolm’s odd behavior from the past few days, seeing as though the two rarely saw each other all week. The team was in different locations for nearly the entire case, each one searching for more answers. 

  


It was exhausting for Gil, who gets a healthy amount of sleep on a normal basis. He couldn’t even imagine how the kid must be feeling right now. 

  


The entire drive over Gil spent nervously tapping the wheel of the Lemans, hoping he can catch Malcolm before his mind falls into its recurring trap of darkness. Traffic was a bitch, as usual. There was no getting around it. From the precinct to Bright’s apartment, it would normally take about twenty minutes to drive over. 

  


But if the Friday evening traffic had anything to say, it’s that this could take a while. 

  


Gil tried calling the profiler twice, each time it went to voice mail. All he could hope for was that Bright fell asleep, finally and that he’s not already begun his emotional discomposure. 

  


Traffic cleared once he was able to split off from the main roads and take the back streets to Malcolm’s apartment. People were rarely out walking at dusk unless they felt it was necessary. It was safer just to walk around during the day than at night. Gil didn’t need the prying eyes of the public calling him into his own station for speeding down a one-lane road. Or recklessly parking in the emergency fire lane. 

  


He got out hastily, slamming his newly repair car door closed before bouncing up onto the sidewalk. The building stared down at him with an ominous glare as he pulled out his spare key from his pocket, twisting it into the lock, listening for the audible click of the latch. He really should have left some form of warning before entering the flat.  _ Hell _ , Malcolm doesn’t even know he’s here. 

  


Maybe he’s turning into Jessica since he’s now apparently arriving at Bright’s residence without any forewarning. 

  


He steps through the doorway and immediately spots Malcolm in the center of the floor, curled up in a fetal position, gasping for air. Gil flung the door closed before rushing over to the disheveled profiler’s side. It was clear he was having a panic attack. A really really  _ really  _ bad panic attack. 

  


Gil collapsed beside Malcolm, reaching out to touch his neck. “Bright!  _ Hey--  _ hey, relax. It’s just Gil, I’m here. It’s okay, _ it’s okay _ . Come back to me, kid.”

  


The profiler violently flinched away from Gil’s hand, his sweat-slick face slamming down into the vinal flooring. He yelped, his breathing ragged and harsh as he sheltered his face with his arms protectively. Gil is shocked in place, his knees digging into the flooring as he watches his son break into hysterics. It gives him time to assess the situation, like most detectives on the scene of a crime. 

  


Malcolm’s dressed in a thin, white, linen shirt and plaid pajama pants, his usual bedtime attire since he was eleven. His shirt was drenched in sweat and vomit, as well as the many tears dripping from his frightened eyes.  _ Oh… his eyes.  _

  


Gil’s heart nearly broke just from the few seconds he saw them. His eyes were usually a pale green-blue, the kind of color that makes people stop dead in their tracks and stare. Now, Gil can barely see the color of his iris because the poor kid’s pupils were so dilated. The whites of his eyes were red and bloodshot, not even just from crying but from pure exhaustion as well. That was something Gil learned to pick up on through his many years of co-parenting Malcolm. 

  


His body shook like an earthquake, his limbs audibly knocking against the hard linoleum. Gil could see his chest rapidly rising and falling from under his soiled t-shirt. It looked as if Bright wasn’t even getting any air, he was only expending it. His lips were tinted just the slightest shade of blue. 

  


Overall, he looked  _ vulnerable. Scared. Terrified.  _

  


Everything Gil fears Malcolm looking like,  _ he currently looks like _ . 

  


A fierce sob tears itself from the kid, choking him until his face turns blood red. The panic, the sheer terror he’s feeling is real. Gil knows. He knows how to calm him down. He’s been doing since the kid came into his life. He knows  _ Malcolm.  _

  


But he doesn’t know this kind of panic. 

  


The suffocating kind. 

  


The kind that makes him vomit and scream and push every bit of help away like its a hot ember. 

  


Gil doesn’t know that kind of panic, so he feels like he’s lost at sea with no life raft, no way to bring his son back afloat. He can’t just let Malcolm go on like this. He’s hurting himself,  _ hell _ , he doesn’t even see Gil.  _ He doesn’t know what he’s seeing!  _

  


Malcolm gags, spitting up bile and little white pills into the floor before he begins to hyperventilate again. Gil is  _ frozen.  _ There’s a lot of pills, but not enough to be lethal. It actually looks like Malcolm’s normal dosage of PM medication. The poor kid’s so worked up he can’t hold anything down. Gil remembers when Bright was younger he would get so anxious he would just vomit without warning. Both he and Jackie got used to it, but they never got used to the guilt and shame Malcolm felt after doing so. 

  


Gil starts talking, saying things he hopes will bring his son out of the terror and into the dimly lit loft. He talks and talks and talks until he can finally rest his hand on Malcolm’s boney back without the kid flinching away. His breathing is better, but not by much. Tears still glisten against his pale cheeks, but Gil thinks he’s starting to calm down. 

  


It takes another ten minutes for the lieutenant to be able to properly pull the kid out and away from the mess on the floor, propping him up against his chest like a small child. Malcolm’s chest heaved, his breathing getting better by the minute. Gil hushed him as another wave of tears came over his son. All he could do was offer the profiler his upmost care and compassion for the time being. 

  


It was a while before Malcolm had relaxed entirely. Gil waited through at least two more small bouts of panic and another close vomiting session. It seemed to come in waves. Small periods of time would pass, then the tears and ragged breathing would start back up again. Only then, after all of the agony, the kid was finally coherent enough to hear Gil’s worried voice peaking through his clouded mind. He didn’t move, Gil wasn’t sure he wanted him to move either. 

  


He wanted Malcolm to feel safe. So he sat on the floor of the lavish apartment and held his son until his demons finally left him astray. 

  


“You’re safe, Mal. I promise nothing’s going to hurt you, okay. Just come back to me,” Gil said, tightening his grip around the slender profiler cowering in his lap. 

  


_ “G-Gil?”  _

  


The lieutenant’s heart nearly stopped beating. Bright’s voice was so small, so  _ broken.  _ Gil didn’t want to believe it belonged to the same boy who bravely turned his father in all those years ago. He didn’t want to face the truth. He didn’t want Malcolm to feel hurt or pain or anger or sadness. But truthfully, that’s never going to happen.

  


Gil knows Malcolm will always feel remorse and guilt over the things he couldn’t control. The murders. The fear. The broken trust. However, he’s learned to rely on other things to save him from his hell, a safe haven of sorts. Gil is his safe haven, the light in the never-ending tunnel of darkness. 

  


“Yes, Malcolm. I’m here-- everything’s okay now. You’re safe. I know you’re still scared but it’s okay. You don’t need to be afraid.”

  


Malcolm shifted around, peering up at Gil’s face with his dull, watery eyes.  _ “S-Safe?”  _

  


“Yeah, kid. You’re safe. Do you remember what happened?”

  


Malcolm looked off distantly at the wall, trying desperately to recall anything. After a few moments, he shook his head, burying his face into Gil’s shoulder. 

  


Gil sighed. “That’s alright, kid. Do you remember what you did today?”

  


It’s a little trick Jackie used to use when Malcolm had his bad panic attacks. He would work himself up until he couldn’t breathe, then he’d promptly pass out on the floor. He was usually confused when he woke up, not being able to recall events from minutes prior, so Jackie would try just asking about his day. Normally, he’d begin to talk slowly and she’d piece together what transpired to make him so anxious, more often than not she was able to sort out the issue. 

  


Malcolm didn’t respond right away, his hand tremor getting significantly worse quickly. When he finally spoke, Gil’s vision went double for a moment. 

  


“I… I haven’t s-slept in d-days. I s-so tired, Gil. I-I can’t sl-sleep, but I’m  _ s-so tired. _ ”

  


Gil began to tear up as Malcolm finished off his talk with a small cry. “ _ Oh, kid… _ ”

  


“I w-want to sleep. I  _ want  _ t-to sleep, b-but I j-just  _ can’t _ !” 

  


Gil cupped the back of his distressed son’s neck, pulling him closer as he cried softly. He made gentle, comforting shushing noises, desperately trying to keep himself from breaking down too. It  _ kills  _ him to see Malcolm like this, hysterical and all out of sorts. 

  


He just wants Malcolm to be okay. Just once, he  _ wants  _ the kid to live his life free from the burdens of being a Whitley. 

  


No matter how he tries to escape it, no how many times he changes his name, he’ll always be tied to the Whitleys. The perfect couple. The perfect life. The perfect father. 

  


_ The perfect crimes.  _

  


“Kid, breathe. It’s alright, we can figure something out,” Gil whispered calmly, though his voice wavered towards the end. “We can talk with your doctors and Gabrielle. Figure out some medication, get you on a sleep schedule. We can work through this, Malcolm.”

  


The profiler shook his head into Gil’s shoulder, his words muffled against Gil’s sweater. “I’ve  _ tried.  _ I-I’ve tried everything.”

  


“You’re on a sleep schedule?”

  


“ _ Uh-huh…  _ it’s h-hard to f-follow though. I q-quit doing it.”

  


“And you’re on sleep medication?”

  


Malcolm tensed, his body going ridged aside from his hand that twitched like it was on a never-ending loop. He nodded, but Gil still didn’t feel like his question had been answered. If he’s on sleep medication, shouldn’t he be able to sleep? Physically, his body will get drowsy and he’ll just pass out. Why does the question only seem half answered? 

  


“ _ It doesn’t work _ .”

  


It was barely a whisper, but Gil caught it loud and clear. “ _ What _ ?”

  


“The m-medicine,” Malcolm said again, this time slightly louder than before. “It d-doesn’t put me to sleep. I  _ still  _ c-can’t sleep, Gil.”

  


The lieutenant’s brain froze. If Malcolm’s sleep meds aren’t working anymore, will the other meds stop working too? Is his body becoming immune to the antipsychotics? Is this just the beginning of something worse? A full breakdown? 

  


“I’m tired.”

  


“I know, kid. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

  


“My shirt’s sticky.”

  


Gil couldn’t find the energy to offer a chuckle, half-hearted or not. “Let’s get you sitting on the couch. Then I’ll find you some clothes. After that…  _ well _ , we’ll just figure it out when we get there, alright?”

  


Malcolm nodded, pealing himself off Gil’s chest and off the floor in a slow process. Gil has a helpful grip on his elbow, leading the profiler over to the sofa. He made sure Bright couldn’t see the mess of pills and vomit on the floor behind them. The last thing he needs is Bright worrying about the state of his apartment. 

  


Gil’s just relieved the pills weren’t from an overdose or a poisoning. If that were the case, he and Malcolm would likely be on their way to the ER and would encounter a  _ very  _ different conversation. 

  


As Gil got Malcolm situated against the blanket-covered cushions, he took a tissue from the coffee table and dabbed away the stray tears and bile coating the kid’s face and neck. Gil has done this so many times he couldn’t even begin to count them all. With all of the murder investigations he’s done in his lifetime, vomit hardly fazes him. Bright’s way too incoherent to even find any bit of the situation disgusting or embarrassing. 

  


The lieutenant cupped his son’s blotchy cheek, offering him a reassuring smile before standing to toss out the tissue in the open kitchen space. He filled up a plastic cup with water, placing a plastic bendy straw in before returning to Bright’s side with the refreshment. Why Malcolm has bendy straws but no valuable form of nutrition in his apartment is a question Gil will never be able to answer. But they come in handy when the profiler loses all form on hand-eye coordination and has to rely on a straw to help him get his fluids. 

  


Once Malcolm busies himself with the multicolored bendy straw, Gil takes the opportunity to find some fresh clothes. For both Bright, and him. 

  


He’s currently fashioning a puke-stained sweater and pair of wrinkled slacks, which is no replacement for a comfy pair of sweat pants. 

  


Gil finds his son’s closet quickly, finding a PJ set for Malcolm and a pair of old, gray sweatpants for himself. He pulled out an oversized ‘I Heart DC’ tee as well. He changed out of everything in the bathroom, leaving Malcolm’s change of PJs in the restroom for whenever he’s ready. He folded up his own soiled sweater and pants, stuffing them into a plastic bag, and dropping it over by the front door for the morning. He plans to stay the night, keeping a watchful eye over the afflicted profiler in case of any other spikes in panic. 

  


Gil takes a seat next to Malcolm, placing a gentle hand over his back. “There’s a change of pajamas in the bathroom for you when you’re ready, kid. Then we can hang out and watch some movies.”

  


The profiler’s head shot up. “Y-You’re not going t-to make me sleep?”

  


Gil smiled softly. “No, Mal. If you can’t sleep, it’s alright. I get that it’s tough, so I won’t force you. But I will say that you’ll feel a whole hell of a lot better if you try. If you sleep for one hour, great! You got some sleep. If you sleep until Sunday, even better! Either way, I’m not going to make you sleep if you really feel like you can’t. I promise you I will support whatever decision you make.”

  


Malcolm smirked, though it didn’t quite reach Gil’s comfort level. There was still some bitter emotion about his face, but it was better than an hour ago. 

  


“Promise not to leave me if I fall asleep?”

  


Gil clasped his hand on the kid’s neck, smiling tenderly at his son. “I promise, kid. I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Leave Kudos and Comments!   
> And I think I'll start leaving a question for yinz to answer in the comments if you choose to. 
> 
> Sooooo...
> 
> What has been your favorite Nexflix binge over this long quarantine?


End file.
